les mis

The Parisian underworld; wistful longing for youth gone by, gorgeously sung with melancholic conviction. Living in poverty and destitution, surrounded constantly by cruel reminders of death, and yet still possessing an unwavering capacity for hope and love.

‘He slept a summer by my side, he filled my days with endless wonder, he took my childhood in his stride, but by autumn he was gone.’

Devotion to dreams that our hearts refuse to allow us to let go of, and the devastation that ensues upon realizing that they will never be. Played in and out to the strings of a graceful harp and rendered in a voice soft and bitter and intensely emotive, the despondent reality of Fantine is laid adjacent to the glittering memory of a fleeting romance.




Compelling and familiar, the heartbreak of unrequited love exposed and the sacrifices still made for those who unknowingly hold us captive. A meandering melody, spanning the streets of a darkened city, granting the imagination freedom to paint a vivid illusion of love desired. An enchanting appreciation for the beauty of the night, liquid silver and sparkling stars, the secrecy permitted to fantasize another life so removed from the garish truths of the daylight. And yet, the despondence of knowing that it is only a dream, that he loves another and will never be hers to possess. The unmatched fidelity is poignantly tragic, and yet the capacity to remain so faithful is enviable, her love truly pure and altruistic.

‘I love him… but only on my own..’

*

m.m puffing a jay

the original luscious lips.

"I don't mind being burdened with being glamorous and sexual. Beauty and femininity are ageless and can't be contrived, and glamour, although the manufacturers won't like this, cannot be manufactured. Not real glamour; it's based on femininity. We are all born sexual creatures, thank God, but it's a pity so many people despise and crush this natural gift. Art, real art, comes from it, everything."

- mm

misty watercoloured memories

Do we ever pause to contemplate the construction of nostalgia? To drink in the little details of daily life? The insipid meanderings of routines, the placement of a jacket upon a bedpost, the smattering of jewelry tossed carelessly upon a bureau? This is the same house, the same bedroom, I have had for most of my life. The position of the closet and the view from my window has been the same for fourteen years. And yet, the furniture and objects contained inside of these walls is barely the same at all. To see what this room, this entire house, looked like fourteen years ago would be an unfathomable gift, a reversion straight back to childhood when responsibilities were nonexistent and everything in life was a game. And yet, back then it was nothing extraordinary, it was simply my room with my things and my life was ordinary and unremarkable. It is curious to think of how time adds value, both to literal and figurative embodiments. Mundane items can accumulate exponential wealth by becoming antiques, just as memories from two weeks ago may not seem significant although ten years from now they would remind you of a completely different life. It is still you and yet so much of what you surround yourself with and the person you have in fact become would be very different from who you were at that point in time. And still, it is a race to the finish, the preoccupation with what lies ahead often preventing us from appreciating the here and now. Perhaps as children we can be excused for this oversight, our minds not fully able to grasp complex concepts and feelings, however, as adults we cannot afford such a luxury. Life is truly a journey; there is no concrete destination. The memories we create allow for a mental catalog of this passage, and it is through those nuanced details (a smell, a touch, a sound) that we are allowed to preserve a feeling characterized by a time and a place. It is the medium by which we are permitted to remember ourselves.

*

lookie bookies

inspiration a la hippie grunge

blue with envy?

hello vest of my dreams

ombre baby

pastel ruffled bloomers + green military vest
=
juxtaposed perfection

cutesie ankle sox

need tye dye

http://www.lfstores.com


h & k ,

n

submissive alters

Megan Fox by Craig McDean
Interview June/July 2010

So muted, save that bloodshot pout.
And how I crave the delish fur bombsey...tres incroyable.

sultry siren

Tiah Eckhardt by Holly Blake
No. Magazine Issue #10

not sure where this came from.. late night rambling from god knows where.. inspiration provoked by gorgeous red hair and coveted cocktail rings..

She is temptation. An elegant creature with an arresting beauty, she has been refined by years of careful cultivation, a wild spirit bridled by repressive social etiquettes that could never quite conceal her evident sexuality. Her luscious flaming hair caressing an alabaster brow was the most obvious of her attributes unable to be obscured. It caused fingers to ache to with desire, longing to grasp the voluminous locks and tug forcefully to the side, exposing her graceful swan’s neck. Lips perfectly poised as if wrapped around some seductive syllable yet to be spoken, permanently stained with an engorged flush that alluded to her illicit behaviors. Her nose tapered and slight, pretentiously curved at the end, as is so of most girls of her upbringing. And ashen eyes like a silvered oyster shell, brimming with so much of the intense innocence of a child that she wears too much eye makeup to distract from them.

Her body was soft and supple, pale from her family’s attempts to shelter her from the world, a caged lily within the monumental manor grounds. In sporadic fits of disregarding rebellion, she marred her pallid perfection with tattooed images of a most vulgar nature, knowing it would incite pure mortification among her relations. She thought they were pornographic, and was decidedly taken with them.

And so she saunters through the empty estate, deemed far too much a liability to be taken out to cocktail parties in her libidinous state. She drips with jeweled baubles, hanging thickly off of her lithe frame, feet bound in silken bondage platforms, her couture ensembles textured and metallic, intended to lure men to her like sticky sweet nectar. She manages to transform conservative brocade and ruffled satin into glossy surfaces begging to be stroked. Her sumptuous leopard fur all she dons save a diamond encrusted velvet choker while lounging on the creamy jacquard duvet beside the family’s pedigreed darling. The nakedness thrills her; the exhilaration of fabrics brushing against her sensitive skin, the fur caressing her body so simultaneously primal and luxurious. She takes secret pleasure in sprawling across the heirloom oak dining table fully nude, reveling in the polished wood sleek against her body. She wishes for a lover but wonders if being so forbidden isn’t more enticing.

Her musings lead her to the immaculately manicured grounds. A slinky gown hugs her silhouette, caressing her body in the cool night air. Her hair is a blaze against the stone intricacies of an effigy; she is striking enough to resemble one herself, if not for her crimson lips and fingertips.

Like a moth to a flame they are drawn. And from such sinful beauty there can be no return. She will forever remain theirs to crave, a lust that will never be slicked. Tantalizingly unattainable. Temptation in its most distilled form.

*

encounters of the authentic, consequential, and sustainable: the industry that I have elected to immerse myself in admittedly does not fall into all of these categories on the reg (especially the sustainable bit). But then, fashion is so much more than the final product displayed on the runway. A model is nothing more than a hanger for a piece that has been worked over time and time again, pressed and pinned, only to then have the stitches let out to try to again get the exact right result. The stages can be traced back from the fabric to the sketch to the concept to the inspiration that came from a creative mind reinterpreting the world into a piece of art that you then get to live your life in. And from there they become gorgeous couture props that are forever captured in the glossy still frames making up aesthetic bibles for the stylishly conscious, the new generation in painterly mastery that simultaneously manages to pontificate the values of artisans and craftsmanship. Then, the most intimate of applications, the fact that garments become the medium via which we experience and reminisce our lives through. Afternoons spent lounging in a park in full hippy garb, nights where summer dresses reveal secret tanlines, fabulous boots worn enjoying a latte in the park… these ensembles may someday end up in a stored away in a trunk to be revisited at luxury, or to perhaps be passed on to some next generation’s muse.

And that’s really what its all about. Not the shallowness, or the self-obsessed (see: Ultra patio Tuesday night; the male Australian actor/model/musican/whathaveyou in his natural state of douchery). Get inspired. Why are we so transfixed on cultivating our outer shells when there is the potential for so much more within us; more of life to be appreciated; a beauty less observed lying in the details. Read a book. Go to a gallery. Enjoy art. Recognize the finer things in life, and not just because of an ostentatious price tag.

Hussein Chalayan

s/s 07

layer cake; recent compulsive consumption of obsession d’jour, The United States of Tara, has sparked curiosity in the concept of multiple personalities hiding behind a public façade (the fact that John Corbett, of Aidan fame, happens to co-star as the most accepting, loving, Southern drawling husband ever is pure coincidence. Of course it is). The identity we choose to carve out for ourselves is but a fraction, the comparable 90% submerged iceberg metaphor wholly applicable, of what actually exists beneath the surface. How many characters do we really embody in a day? Upon examining such a notion within the confines of my own daily routine, the numbers quickly began to amount. There is a certain facet that craves routine and stability, the persona that enjoys nothing more than cooking a chili rubbed pork tenderloin dinner for her man avec a bottle of Pinot Grigio (as was the case Tuesday) and somewhere down the line sees a white picket fence, aprons from Anthropology, and tennis lessons twice a week (followed by cocktails). There is the unbridled anima, the wild thing reveling in youth and the seemingly unending opportunities to drink from bottles and coagulate in rapid conversation until the wee hours of the morn. And the darky, the suppressed id that we know to still exist deep within the recesses of our soul; a spoiled, selfish thing that throws unjustified tantrums at whim and is constantly streaked green with envy. These are just to name a select few characters we embody day in day out. And they all reside within a strange symbiotic universe, somehow coming to collaborate in defining the identity that we present to the public.

It is perhaps even more intriguing to consider how these parts will shift and shapes themselves as we grow into the people that we have not yet become, as our interests change and we traverse the globe, seeing sights that will shake us to our very core, falling in and out of love with people and places. It invites the question of the kind of people we will challenge ourselves to be, and what brands of savoir-faire we should be engaging in to make it so. Because someday we won’t all be pretty young things, and we will be resolved to coexisting with the ids and egos and superegos inside of us, and you better fucking hope that your inner child isn’t still dominating your adult self.

All we can hope for is equilibrium.

It has been a weekend of indulgences, to be sure. Power Ball poured copious amounts of vodka sodas down the hatch, leading us on a strange and bizarre evening, showcasing our city’s eccentric artist-type scene. A crowd of misfits that are all united by their complete disregard for conventionalism; fishnet stockings pulled taunt over a balding head, a dance floor packed with patrons swaying to synths that only their ears were privy to, and drag queen drama galore.. this was not your mother’s gala scene. And in this mélange of weirdness, there was the poignant sense of potential, the feeling that there was a collective mind at work here on the very brink of great innovation. After all, I suppose to explore regions where no one has dared venture before one must require a certain level of fuckedupedness. Or perhaps yours truly just had a few too many. But I digress; let’s just say that as the night continued, walking in 6-inch stilettos somehow became much easier. That is, until they cut off complete circulation in my poor lil tootsies. But still, a most lovely romp in wonderland.

The festivities continued into Friday, with curiosity luring to Queen West’s new spot, Parts and Labour. Still safe from the lecherous clubfare (for now), the crowd was refreshingly mature and arty, and allowed for some QT drinking avec my dear S. A dented bottle and some time later, we emerged into the quiet of a sleeping Parkdale, minds awash with inebriated conversation and reeling for more. A hop, skip, and flight of stairs later, the next thing you know and the birds are chirping. Ah youth. Oh yes, I was about to repent for that one. But the insights and vibes absorbed were definitely a worthwhile trade, for after all, it is only between the truly intoxicated that brilliant conversations are permitted to occur (amidst chain smoking, I might add).

An unhurried day of recuperation was spent basking in the sun with my love, leading to a delish meal at Oddfellows, complete with a prime burger and positioning for people watching. Saw Prince of Persia in the evening (backup option, I swear) and although I was rightly skeptical, the movie did succeed in igniting some intense infatuation a la Gyllenhaal… dirty scruff, mussy locks, scorching blue eyes, and a smile that could disarm a nuclear bomb. Me likely. A lot.

That's right.
Come to mama.

x o x o

What is it about French women that makes them so timelessly alluring? So elegant and sophisticated in the chicest understated fashion; there is no notion of the gauche, the tacky, the bleached blonde bouffantry and obnoxious orange melanoma that has come to consume North American standards of beauty. The French are sexy in the subtlest of customs, casually puffing on a cigarette with unfussy hair hanging in loose tendrils around their shoulders, or pulled back into a lazy chignon. The simplicity allows for more insinuating qualities to shine through, preserving a more unconventional type of loveliness. Their noses may at times be too prominent, their facial characteristics not perfectly symmetrical, but they understand the value of highlighting the features they do possess, instead of attempting to fool everyone with garish impersonations of what they do not. The wideness of a bright eye, the delicate bow of an upper lip, the contour of an incisive cheekbone. Plus, as is common knowledge, they are always of the lithest frame, despite existing on a diet of wine and brie and baguette. It is for this reason that we will be forever thankful for the small amount of French blood running through our veins, even though we’re sure our grandmother would find our lack of fluency in the language positively appalling. At least we know how to look fab in head-to-toe noir?

Therefore, behold our latest fille crush: Clémence Poésy, as inspired by our second viewing of In Bruges (if you haven’t seen, you must…we insist).

To end, we must excuse ourselves to get ready for this year’s Power Ball… pure (borrowed) sequin gorgeousness ce soir. Promise to posty pics! xoxo